


Je crèverai seule avec moi // Près de ma radio

by murphysics



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22437613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murphysics/pseuds/murphysics
Summary: Byakuran wants to meet a new researcher from Giglio Nero. They meet.
Relationships: Byakuran/Irie Shouichi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Je crèverai seule avec moi // Près de ma radio

**Author's Note:**

> i dunno what it is. rating is T because byakuran swears. he also has mm issues

“Just stop being such an ass,” Bluebell says, concluding her desperate attempts to make him see reason, and lets him into the research centre. 

“ _I can’t process this search query,_ ” a nice female voice says. Byakuran smiles and tries to pinpoint the source of the voice, but finds Yuni instead. She sits in the dark with her knees to the side, a tablet in her lap, leaning onto the protection glass that apparently surrounds the command station; the station glows with monitors.

“Good afternoon, Byakuran,” Yuni greets politely. 

“Why not candles, huh?” he chuckles and sits on the chair near her. Bluebell turns away and starts knocking at the coffee machine. 

“Our specialist wouldn’t like it,” Yuni answers and doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“And where did you find this wonderful woman?” Byakuran asks. 

“Her name is Tessa,” another voice says from the speakers. Byakuran swallows and the sound of it is so loud it must have been heard in Tuscany vineyards. “I wrote her.” 

“Well, shit,” says Bluebell quietly. She’s not very surprised. Byakuran notices her wanting to turn back from the machine to check on him. 

“She has Lara Fabian’s voice,” notes a man from the speakers. Byakuran can’t understand if he’s joking, and if he is, then why. It feels awful. He has many questions. 

“ _Tu es partout_ ,” says Tessa. 

“Yuni,” Byakuran calls, his voice hoarse. “Yuni, a word.” 

_And where is Edith Piaf joke_ , Bluebell wonders soundlessly and spits out another, louder profanity. 

Yuni puts the tablet away. 

*

Giglio Nero complex is placed at Rome’s outskirts. Byakuran leaves the gate and walks by the road to the bus station — aimlessly; there is enough drama in the hot, thick air for him to leave now. At least— 

“You may start speaking,” Byakuran says, feeling Yuni’s eyes on his back. He hears Yuni pulling out the bottle out of her bag — Yuni the genius, the little Buddha, the eye of the storm, always as composed as it’s possible and _always_ hydrated — and tries not to clench his fists. He repeats: “You may start speaking.” 

“Nearly three years,” she says. 

_Fuck_ , Byakuran thinks. _Fuck_. 

“I thought you two talk,” Yuni says and sips her water, “I thought everything’s fine.” 

Surely, Yuni doesn’t have to align her actions according to where and when and how Byakuran can, potentially, lose his shit, but — everything’s fi— _why would she say that?_

“Everything’s fine—” Byakuran starts, half-growling, and turns to face her. He feels the heavy hot wind on his back, hair in his eyes. Yuni’s eyes are of summer blue colour, vivid and bright. He wants to (no) them (no) with his hands and throw away into the field (no). He tries again: “Everything is fine, princess, when he’s staying _away_ from this shit.” 

Yuni looks at him like she contemplates which blend of calming tea to offer. Ave Maria, it is _unbearable_. 

“CERN internship is fine,” he continues flatly, feeling swallowed exclamation points breaking up into sharp pieces in his mouth after each sentence. “MTI is. Healthcare startup is. To build robots-assistants. Smart ones,” Byakuran breathes in, coming closer, and lay hands on Yuni’s shoulders and forces himself not to shake her and her eyes over and over again (no), “You got me? Not _this_.” 

  
  


* 

They haven’t spoken about it for three years, so it won’t be a problem to wait for another three months, decides Byakuran and leaves for a mysterious archaeological mission involving a mysterious Flame in Morocco. There are no FaceTime calls connecting them anymore; just silence, like the old times. 

Byakuran stares at the desert, feeling sick of himself. 

* 

“Coffee,” he announces, entering the command centre on the hoverboard. 

“ _Please, leave the transport in the hall,_ ” Tessa says. Shoichi looks at him as if he’s wearing Glo Xinia’s mask. Byakuran thinks he hears Shoichi’s heart trembling between _specialist’s_ ribs.

He wonders, for a moment, why Shoichi looks so young. It seems wrong; unnatural. 

“Um. Thanks,” says Shoichi and continues staring. 

_Nice start_ , thinks Byakuran. 

“I’m kind of busy over here,” tells Shoichi. 

_Make it casual_ , encourages himself Byakuran. As if it’s worked, ever. 

“I’ll wait,” he assures, relaxing onto the couch behind Shoichi. 

Shoichi finishes his work at an hour past midnight and covers sleeping Byakuran and his copy of _He Who Saw Everything_ with a red blanket. Byakuran doesn’t bother with dropping his act, trying to wrap his mind around the fact Shoichi _leaves_. 

*

When morning comes, Byakuran smokes right in the room and flicks the ash into empty energy drink can. Shoichi launches the server and all networked computers right after he passes through the center’s gates, so he can walk to his machines, toys, and blocks listening to Tessa’s breezy explanations. Byakuran mutes their conversation. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, turning around himself in Shoichi’s not very comfortable office chair. “You don’t have any sweets, do you?” 

“You already have your cigarettes,” responds Shoichi. He doesn’t look fresher than yesterday. Byakuran wonders how much he sleeps. Shoichi turns the air conditioner on to relieve the tobacco smell, takes the can from Byakuran’s hands and replaces it with an ashtray from one of the desk drawers. Byarunan feels like he’s going to throw up. There are two butts in the ashtray. “I dunno.” 

“We worked in the same team for three years,” tells Byakuran, making a deep drag, “could be fun.” 

“Mmm,” Shoichi’s eyes are open and unguarded, and it’s sickening. How could he fuck up so massively, when did _that_ happen? Don’t answer that. 

“I visited last year,” Byakuran is still looking at him. He starts smiling, and that smile — he knows what he does — Shoichi knows this smile — is all over his face; his jaw hurts. Shoichi is twenty-one ( _thirty-one_ ), he’s smart as hell, MTI alumni, fuck-his-face, _what did you drag yourself into again_? “You could have said. A lot of times.” 

“I worked,” Shoichi replies, “and I rested. That’s it.” 

“I thought you joined mafia to destroy mafia,” patience is a virtue, and Byakuran has no virtue of such sort. Shoichi’s face reflects all his headache and anxiety: touch him and you’ll get the knots of throbbing stomach pain in your hands. At least it seems like that. Byakuran wants them, these knots. He wants them gone. 

Shoichi isn’t good when he’s pressured or maybe he is _extremely good_ because right now he fixes his glasses with the middle finger and sighs.

It’s so, so curious. 

“You’re confusing something,” Shoichi smiles — a soft grin — and wryly raises an eyebrow, sending a bitter, maddening memory right to Byakuran’s heart (Byakuran’s back; he’s such a sentimental fool.) “And you didn’t think like that at all.” 

“You got what I wanted to say,” dismisses Byakuran. He wants to weave off the situation entirely: these smiles, and these glasses, and, if it’s possible, all other entities comprising fucking Irie Shoichi; why has he even _came here_? 

“Something was happening all the time... Stop, I know how it sounds,” Shoichi gestures to shut him up, although Byakuran didn't plan on interrupting. He knows: an eruption, Baghdad, a recession that made Vongola a legal Peter Pan among minds alike. He wishes he didn’t. “And, the more time passed, the more complicated explanations seemed. I have many, actually. And I decided I don't want to rush things.” 

_Don't want to tell you until you ask_. “Wanna tell me at least one?” And Shoichi, of course, frowns as if he sees an unexpected compilation outcome; because Byakuran is a _bitch_. 

“I was bored. Professionally,” Shoichi answers nonetheless and takes the ashtray from him. “I wanted to see if things can be done differently. I missed...” He gestures with his hands instead of finishing the phrase, leaving an opening for “missed you”, but who mises people and don’t meet them where it’s possible for three years? (Don’t answer this.) 

“Okay,” Byakuran says. “Okay.” 

They’re silent. A minute after, one of Shoichi’s screens lightens with a call notification and he lifts his chin to get his guest out of the chair; a guest obeys. 

“Byakuran,” he calls, putting the earplugs in. Byakuran looks at the map of Europe at the wall and thinks about Florence, fragolino, flags, and tries not to dig his nails into his palm. _Byakuran-san,_ he hears, his head spinning. “Next time, please, turn the air conditioner on, okay?” 

“Okay,” Byakuran answers — about freesias, foxgloves, fennel. 


End file.
